


Alignment

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kneeling, BDSM, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Kneeling, Multi, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Sub!Athos, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“New recruits – or in your case, apprentices – are expected to kneel to their superior officer for their first few months of service,” Athos continues, as Aramis lets himself linger at Porthos’ feet for just a few more moments. “I will expect you to kneel to me until you’re commissioned, and then it will become your choice whether you wish to continue. Some soldiers do, others don’t.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I do,” Aramis adds.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Porthos puts a hand briefly on Aramis’ head, the pressure of it gone again far too quickly for his liking. “And I don’t.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Do you?” d’Artagnan asks.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alignment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryfeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the bones of what you believe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503416) by [brandonsaad (createadisaster)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/createadisaster/pseuds/brandonsaad). 



> This was inspired by the fic linked above, which is in the Hockey RPF fandom. I was so taken with the kneeling AU idea that I wanted to write my own _Musketeers_ version, and as usual, there was a lot more porn than I was expecting.
> 
> For [cherryfeather](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather), because she wrote me a lovely thing recently, and I believe in fighting porn with porn.

The first time d'Artagnan kneels to Athos, Aramis is reading Góngora by the fire, and Porthos is stripping his pistol at the dining table with the care of a lover.

At first, Aramis keeps his eyes firmly on the page and pretends he's not listening to Athos' calm, steady explanation of Musketeer customs; before deciding after a couple of seconds that he’s actually far more interested in peering surreptitiously around the edges of his book and watching d’Artagnan’s face.

 _Athos has left it late,_ he thinks, d’Artagnan’s been with them permanently for a few weeks already now. Maybe Athos hadn’t thought he would last long enough for this to be worth doing.

Of course, that would leave the question of what has changed.

In the time it takes Aramis to look away, turn a page and look back, d’Artagnan’s expression has morphed from one of wary scepticism – wondering if he’s being pranked, perhaps, not that Aramis has known Athos to play a prank on anyone in all the years he’s known him – to the look of one who’s been charged with a great honour before his time, a shy sort of wonder which Aramis decides look very fetching on him indeed.

He smiles into his book.

D’Artagnan will be _good_ at this.

Aramis looks back up at a sudden, imperious click of the fingers; from Athos, it seems, who is looking his way. “Aramis. A demonstration for my apprentice, if you would be so kind?”

Porthos has already pushed his chair out a little from under the table and has his hands resting on his knees, drawing him over with the small, expectant smile that Aramis always wants to kiss.

D’Artagnan has pushed his own chair out a little too, and is leaning round the corner of the table in curiosity.

Aramis puts his book down open on the arm of the chair before crossing the room to where Porthos sits, barely stopping for a moment before he turns on his heel and drops fluidly to the floor, knees folding under him like he belongs there.

For D’Artagnan’s benefit, he kneels the way he was taught: _properly_ , against the outside of Porthos’ leg and facing away from him, hands clasped in his own lap, back straight, head folded against his chest. He’s not knelt this way for years now, but even so, it still feels as much of a homecoming as it ever has.

He resists the temptation to let his breathing slow and his awareness of his surroundings drop away from him; instead keeping his eyes open and his focus on the press of his interlinked fingers, his awareness of all their eyes upon him.

 _Later_ , he promises himself. He’s sure Porthos will oblige.

Porthos’ hand squeezes his shoulder already after only a few moments, meaning, _you’re done_.

“New recruits – or in your case, apprentices – are expected to kneel to their superior officer for their first few months of service,” Athos continues, as Aramis lets himself linger at Porthos’ feet for just a few more moments. “I will expect you to kneel to me until you’re commissioned, and then it will become your choice whether you wish to continue. Some soldiers do, others don’t.”

“I do,” Aramis adds.

Porthos puts a hand briefly on Aramis’ head, the pressure of it gone again far too quickly for his liking. “And I don’t.”

“Do you?” d’Artagnan asks.

Aramis looks up in surprise, eyes drawn straight to Athos; whose expression is as carefully closed as he’s ever seen it, though it occurs to him a moment later that d’Artagnan won’t have understood what a personal question he’s just asked.

Something Aramis will have to tell him later, then. Trust Athos to only explain the written rules, and none of the _unwritten_ ones.

“Even I knelt as a new recruit, yes,” Athos replies, a moment too late – which wasn’t what d’Artagnan asked at all, of course, but is at least some kind of answer.

Aramis is half-expecting d’Artagnan to point that out; but he seems to let it go, the frown creasing his expression not aimed at Athos, but turned inward. “Alright, but I still don’t understand _why_ you do this in the first place.”

“Then why don’t you try it and see?” Aramis takes over the conversation, getting heavily to his feet, knees protesting a little. “The answer, as with so many things, is nine-tenths tradition – but once you’ve experienced it, you’ll see that traditions normally develop for a reason.”

He looks over at Athos for confirmation, suddenly worried he’s overstepped his bounds where another man’s apprentice is concerned; but Athos gives him a nod that’s grateful rather than annoyed, before crooking a finger at d’Artagnan and crossing the room, to sit in the other armchair.

Aramis presses his hand briefly to Porthos’ arm before returning to his chair, and opening his book in his lap; though he has no intention of reading any further, or doing anything other than watching the way d’Artagnan walks slowly over to Athos – silent for once, as if he’s nervous of somehow getting this wrong.

It’s probably more endearing than it should be.

“Kneel,” Athos says gently, patting his right knee, on Aramis’ far side; and d’Artagnan turns as he saw Aramis do, and drops to the floor beside him.

 “Keep your back straight,” Athos instructs, leaning over to press a hand low on d’Artagnan’s back, and Aramis watches with interest as d’Artagnan draws back his shoulders and tucks in his spine, raising his chest. “Shoulders loose, and bow your head.”

Aramis can’t help smiling. He was right, as he so often is: d’Artagnan kneels beautifully, almost as if he was born to it.

“That’s good,” Athos continues, squeezing d’Artagnan’s shoulder lightly through his leathers. “It’ll just be a few minutes, this first time. I’ll tell you when we’re done.”

As Athos relaxes back into his chair, he looks the very picture of competent authority, Aramis’ memories warming him low in his belly; and if he hadn’t seen Athos kneeling, hadn’t knelt alongside him, he’s not sure he would be able to imagine it at all.

He remembers sliding Athos’ doublet off his shoulders, encouraging him over to where Porthos sat in the very same chair he occupies now, with a reassuring hand at his elbow, as Porthos looked first to Athos and then to him, and Aramis found he was holding his breath. It was just two days after they’d put Bonnaire on a ship to Spain, and even though Porthos’ mood had mostly lifted he was still curt and subdued by turns; and Aramis had thought for a horrible, sinking moment that Porthos would refuse them.

He’d never been so glad to be wrong.

The moment Porthos nodded and placed his hands on his own knees, Athos dropped to the floor between Porthos’ legs like a marionette with its strings cut, folding in on himself and letting go of an evenness that Aramis only now realised he’d been wearing round him like a cloak ever since he and d’Artagnan had come back from La Fère, a day late.

There was a new, red mark on Athos’ forehead that looked like it could be a burn, though he’d grimaced and twisted away when Aramis tried to look, and brushed his hair over his forehead after that; and something new in his eyes which made Aramis feel cold all over.

Athos pressed his head to the inside of Porthos’ thigh and closed his eyes, face screwing up as if in pain – or holding back tears, Aramis realised, with an unpleasant lurch.

The worried glance he exchanged with Porthos showed he had had the same thought; and Aramis wasted no time in kneeling down half-next to Athos, half-behind him, body thrumming with the need to ask, but refusing to give in.

“There, that’s good,” he heard Porthos murmur, and watched him weave his hand into Athos’ hair, caressing his scalp. “It’s all good. I’ve got you.”

Almost painfully glad for Porthos – as ever – Aramis leaned over to wrap his arms round Athos’ middle and rest his head on his shoulder, hating himself just a little as he realised that had he not seen Athos kneel, he might not have known he was hurting at all.

* * *

 

Aramis finds his moment to sit down with d’Artagnan a few evenings later, when Athos and Porthos are on late guard duty and the two of them are drinking alone, to explain what Athos has neglected to mention. How kneeling, even though every man in the regiment has done it, is still an intensely private thing; and how you don’t ask a man if he kneels any more than you ask him who he’s bedding.

D’Artagnan blushes slightly, presumably at the memory of asking the very same question, and to a man as private as Athos, no less – before his expression turns suddenly suspicious. “If this is so private, then why did Athos ask me to kneel in front of you and Porthos?”

“Ah. We are – somewhat unorthodox,” Aramis replies carefully. “I kneel to both of them – Athos and Porthos. I have done for a while. So we’re a unit in that sense too. And you’re one of us now, so it made sense.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan replies, still looking confused. “So has anyone ever knelt to you?”

“Porthos, actually, when he was commissioned. I had – the man I had knelt to when I joined had died, quite recently. I think Tréville thought it would be good for me to take someone on. We lasted for three days before I realised I should actually be kneeling to him.” Aramis chuckles at the memory. “We never did tell Tréville.”

D’Artagnan blinks. “Why did you kneel to him, if he was supposed to kneel to you?”

Aramis can’t help smiling at d’Artagnan’s confusion. “Can you imagine Porthos kneeling to anyone? Some men, it just doesn’t suit. I don’t know if they ever refuse or if they just put up with it for a few months, but we found another way,” he explains, before draining his glass. “I think it’s supposed to be symbolic of the fact that we set aside our personal wills to embody the will of His Majesty or something like that, but in my opinion, it doesn’t really matter which one of you does the kneeling – the bond being forged is the same. If someone doesn’t want to kneel, they just resent it, and it becomes a pointless exercise.”

“I think I understand that,” d’Artagnan replies with a nod. “Will I kneel to Porthos as well, then?”

“Only if you want to,” Aramis says, leaning over to refill d’Artagnan’s glass. “You can kneel to him or to Athos, with me or alone. But you don’t need to worry about any of that yet. Just let Athos be your guide for now, and you’ll start to develop an idea of what you’ll want once you’ve received your commission. From all of us, if that’s what feels right.”

* * *

 

As with so many things, Aramis would reflect later on, Athos should have just _told_ d’Artagnan instead of keeping his proclivities to himself; and thus when the boy did eventually find out, making it look as though he’d stumbled on something he shouldn’t have.

In hindsight, they’d all become so free with their use of Aramis’ apartments, d’Artagnan included, that Aramis is surprised it takes more than a month for him to turn up on an evening when he isn’t expected, to find Porthos in the armchair by the fire, and Aramis and Athos both on their knees before him.

 _At least everybody’s got their clothes on_ , Aramis reflects, as he hears the footsteps, the door creaking open and the sudden silence as d’Artagnan stops dead on the threshold – and he looks first to Porthos, who immediately shields Athos’ face with his hand as he tries to turn, glaring first at d’Artagnan and then jerking his chin at Aramis, meaning, _go and sort this out_.

D’Artagnan at least has the good sense to say silent, letting Aramis grab a half-full bottle of the wine from the table with one hand and taking him firmly by the elbow with the other, manoeuvring him through into his bedroom and closing the door carefully behind him, against the low, soothing sound of Porthos’ voice.

“Sit down,” Aramis says quietly, thrusting the bottle into d’Artagnan’s hands; “have a drink, and ask what you want to ask.”

He’s not being very tactful, or very helpful, he knows; but he’s been rudely brought out of himself before he was ready, and he’s still feeling distant, and not quite ready to engage with the world. Certainly not ready to engage with d’Artagnan and his questions, anyway, though it doesn’t look as though he has much of a choice.

D’Artagnan looks down at the bottle for a moment before taking a deep drink, eyes casting around the room, as if he can’t quite decide where to begin.

His first question is not one Aramis is expecting.

“Why is Porthos angry?”

“He’s not angry. He’s just protecting Athos,” Aramis replies, running a hand through his hair. “But you had to find out sooner or later, and I for one am tired of pretending.”

“You were keeping it from me, then,” d’Artagnan says, coldly – and too loud.

“For Christ’s sake keep your voice down!” Aramis hisses, a warning hand on d’Artagnan’s arm.

“It was Athos’ place to tell you,” he continues, more gently; “and he didn’t, because Athos is Athos and he never tells anyone anything, even when it leads to situations like this.” He wrestles the bottle back from d’Artagnan, and takes a swig. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I don’t think he was actively trying to keep it from you. He just didn’t know how to talk about it.”

D’Artagnan leans back on his hands, mulling over Aramis’ words for a few moments. “Did he always kneel to Porthos, then?”

Aramis hesitates for a moment; but then thinks, _fuck it_ , it’s not like it matters. “He knelt to Tréville, when he arrived.” At d’Artagnan’s look of surprise, he explains, “Tréville takes all the nobles himself. To ask them to kneel to a commoner would be an insult, apparently. I suppose he stopped after a few months, I don’t know. Athos, that is. I can’t imagine him asking Tréville if he could continue. But then one day, when he’d had his commission about six months, Athos walked in on me kneeling to Porthos, and instead of closing the door again he just – knelt down beside me.” He bats away d’Artagnan’s hand where it’s reaching for the bottle, and takes a deep drink himself. “That was four years ago. And we’ve never really talked about it since.”

“Hmm,” d’Artagnan replies, looking at the patterned carvings on the doors of Aramis’ armoire; appearing to accept everything Aramis is saying, at least. “I suppose he feels the same way I do. Sort of… calm.”

“I’d imagine so,” Aramis agrees. “I’m sure there’s a lot going on in that head of his that he likes to get away from every now and then. That’s certainly how I feel when I’m kneeling.”

“I… was hoping to kneel this evening, actually.”

Aramis is already shaking his head. “Not to Athos, I’m afraid. It takes a bit of time to… well, he won’t be ready for that tonight. But – you could kneel to me, if you liked?”

D’Artagnan looks at him in surprise. “You do that?”

“Not with them,” Aramis replies with a smile, “but I’d be happy to with you.”

“Thank you. And – the way Athos was kneeling…” d’Artagnan trails off, as if he’s not quite sure how to finish that sentence; and Aramis realises what he must mean, remembers how Athos’ cheek was pressed against Porthos’ inner thigh, body facing him, Porthos’ hand cradling his jaw.

“Ah. Yes, well. As I said before, we don’t exactly follow protocol to the letter,” Aramis replies, unable to completely hide his awkwardness. “But if you’re ready, why don’t we try something a bit more relaxed?”

“I’m ready,” d’Artagnan replies quickly, getting to his feet, as Aramis shuffles a little further forward on the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor.

“Kneel between my legs, facing away,” he instructs, as d’Artagnan sinks to the floor; and Aramis reaches out a hand, cupping the back of d’Artagnan’s head and moving it to rest against the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. “There you go, that’s right. Now, just close your eyes and relax.”

As d’Artagnan leans into him, pressing his cheek to Aramis’ leg and letting his shoulders curl in, Aramis decides it’s a little strange, but pleasantly so, and wonders if Athos would be willing to lend d’Artagnan to him occasionally. It’s certainly better than the few strained, horrible times Porthos knelt to him, the tension radiating from him so strongly that Aramis had never lasted more than a couple of minutes before telling him to stop, no more able to relax than Porthos had.

They were supposed to persevere, he knew that – Tréville had told him as much in no uncertain terms, when Aramis came to his office after the first time and said that it wasn’t working, it would never work. But fortunately, Aramis has never been a fan of received wisdom; and though Porthos was considerably more relaxed but equally bemused the first few times that Aramis knelt to him instead, he slowly came to appreciate that he was as grounded and as calmed by it as Aramis was, in his own way.

And when Aramis finally plucked up the courage to suck his cock at the same time – well, that hadn’t exactly hurt.

Aramis had thought for a while that he’d been pressed into the wrong role, just as much as Porthos had; but the question that’s stirred in his mind a few times when watching Athos kneeling to Porthos only swells with the realisation that he’s enjoying having d’Artagnan here at his feet, and he slides a hand carefully into the boy’s hair and just lets it rest there, appreciating the feeling of the soft strands against his fingers, occasionally scratching gently at d’Artagnan’s scalp.

Wondering what it would be like to have Athos here, kneeling to him instead. Whether Aramis could give him the same care that Porthos does; and whether Athos could accept it from him, or whether it would be too deeply coloured by everything else they do together.

When Aramis kneels for Porthos, it’s to show his affection for him, or to pleasure him, or it’s to be by Athos’ side; but when he truly yearns to leave his thoughts behind him for a while and drop to his own still depths, it’s not Porthos he kneels before but Athos, pressing his cheek against Athos’ breeches and inhaling the scent of horses and leather as he waits for the always-reticent hand to wind into its hair, tugging a little the way Athos knows he likes, and allowing himself to forget everything except that touch.

* * *

 

Aramis is not above admitting that there are a few things about Athos he wishes he could change.

Nothing fundamental, of course; he loves his brother for who he is, and does not demand anything of him, much as he occasionally wants to.

What he does wish, though, is that Athos would open up a little more; that he would just tell them his wants and desires, for example, instead of leaving them entirely unspoken, their fulfilment subject to whatever Aramis has been able to piece together through a mix of intuition, a few happy accidents, and several days of leaving the door deliberately unlocked before getting on his knees and sucking Porthos’ cock.

He’ll never forget the exact tone of Porthos’ voice the very next night, as they both knelt at his feet, deep and soft and careful, saying: “I’ll only say this once, Athos, and we never have to mention it again – but if you ever want to do what you saw us doing, then we’re yours. Both of us.”

Athos didn’t reply, and the disappointment had just started to sink in Aramis’ stomach when he felt strong, elegant fingers wrap around his and squeeze firmly, before Athos leaned forward, moving both hands to the buttons at Porthos’ breeches.

Still, they have never talked about it; and listening to the uneasy silence around him, Aramis wonders if he has truly put the cat among the pigeons this time – though hardly without just cause.

“We’re not telling him,” Athos replies, with the finality of a leader. “It’s irrelevant.”

Porthos is glaring at him.

Aramis ignores Porthos and raises an eyebrow at Athos, knowing he doesn’t need to point out in words that it most certainly is _not_ irrelevant, not to any of them.

He’s surprised when Athos puts a hand on his arm. “It’s _private_ ,” he continues, eyes flickering away for a moment. “I don’t want d’Artagnan to feel that anything would be expected of him.”

“So just tell him that,” Aramis replies; and he’ll admit to himself if not to them that at least half of his motivation is the thought of what d’Artagnan’s lips would look like wrapped around Athos’ cock. How playfully he would smile, how Aramis would put his hands on d’Artagnan’s waist and tell him how to use his tongue, teach him how to swallow Athos all the way down.

Athos clears his throat, and gives Aramis a look.

Athos, damn him, knows exactly what Aramis is thinking.

Athos, who has never let Aramis touch him, or suck him, who whether Aramis is on his knees before him or beside him has always kept his breeches firmly buttoned, even while he’s done so many sweet, sinful things for the two of them with his hands and mouth.

Aramis doesn’t understand it at all; and the fact that Athos won’t just _talk_ about it is what’s frustrating, far more so than the memory of the few times Aramis has reached for him and has his hand gently but firmly caught, and moved away.

“He’s an adult,” he argues; gritting his teeth when he realises his annoyance is starting to show in his voice, forcing himself to take a breath. “He can make his own decisions.”

“An adult with a serious case of hero worship, at least,” Porthos points out. “And it’s not his decision, it’s Athos’. D’Artagnan’s his apprentice.”

“That he is.” Aramis shrugs in concession, not because he _agrees_ but because Porthos is right about the principle of it.

D’Artagnan will be hurt – betrayed, even, when he finds out, which Aramis is fairly sure he will do eventually. He’s supposed to be one of them now, and it makes no sense to keep this secret. But overruled Aramis has been, and he’s forgotten it already when he and Athos kneel to Porthos together; him naked and Athos in his linens, alternating between kissing each other and kissing the head of Porthos’ cock together, as Porthos puts one hand on each of their heads and leans over to tell them how good they are with their mouths, how beautiful on their knees.

Athos’ eyes fall shut as he ducks his head, drawing physically away from the praise, as he always does, as if it’s more than he knows how to deal with; and Aramis draws him close and kisses him all the harder for it, his mouth and his hands saying everything he doesn’t dare to say with his voice in case it backfires on him.

Aramis sees the same duality in Athos that he sees in himself, but it manifests entirely differently. Where his own needs are a bird, light of wing, quick to change and comfortable in all different flight paths, Athos’ are the moon, hanging heavy in the sky and showing different faces on different nights, indivertible from its set course.

Sometimes needing, and sometimes needed; though that’s no more than the human condition, and Aramis has never been unobservant enough to kid himself that Porthos needs them at his feet any less than they both need to be there.

* * *

 

In all the years they’ve been doing this, Aramis has never thought anything about the three of them is balanced; and he’s surprised to find that when the solution comes to him at last, with the clarity of Murano glass, it’s nothing more than simple physics.

The farther you push an object out of alignment, the harder it will swing back the other way, before eventually settling into its rightful place; and this is what’s in his mind when one quiet evening he drops to his knees before Athos without a word or a warning, puts one hand high up on the inside of his thigh, near the seam of his breeches, drops his eyes, and holds his breath.

 _Let me,_ Aramis thinks, in the voice he reserves for prayer, and for whispering dirty secrets into Porthos’ ear on the nights they don’t kneel at all but fall into the same bed, kissing the tipsy smiles from each other’s faces.

The silence is palpable; and Aramis looks up through his lashes to see Athos’ hand hovering just above his, frozen in indecision, and his eyes wide and fearful.

“No,” he says, quietly and distinctly; “not like this. I –”

His eyes flick involuntarily to Porthos, still at the dining table; and Aramis thinks, _yes, yes,_ and grabs the hand above his, pulling Athos to his knees beside him, and into his arms.

He wonders if it’s something in Athos’ principles; or more likely, that his duality is both more and less than Aramis had understood. That his desires do not form two halves of a whole but are separate wholes in themselves, whereas Aramis’ own desires are fluid and mixed, barely even separable.

Though he doesn’t have to understand completely, he reasons, if he can at least respect it, and help give Athos what he needs.

He looks up at the sound of sudden footsteps; and realises with relief that Porthos has seen everything, as he sits himself down in Athos’ vacated chair and immediately pushes a hand into Athos’ hair, encouraging his head against his thigh. “Spread your legs, darling,” he coos, voice dropping down low; and a spark ignites in Aramis’ belly as Athos complies immediately, helplessly eager.

“That’s good,” Porthos praises him, pressing his thumb against Athos’ bottom lip as Aramis curls his fingers against the leather of Athos’ breeches, not daring to push just yet; “you’re so obliging, aren’t you? Now, tell me what you need.”

Aramis hardly dares breathe as he waits, hoping to God he hasn’t got this wrong; but finally, _finally_ , Athos opens his mouth to whisper, “Take me,” screwing his eyes tight shut as if it pains him to admit.

This –

This is even _better_ than he dared hope for.

“Oh, Athos,” Porthos replies, seemingly lost for words for a moment, eyes large and round and flicking between Athos and Aramis as if he can’t quite believe it. “Of course. Aramis can take you while you suck my cock, would you like that?”

Athos nods quickly, eyes still shut; and Aramis reaches around Athos’ middle to link their hands together, overcome for a moment with the sudden, insistent pulsing of his cock as Porthos’ words start to sink in.

“Gorgeous,” Porthos continues, reaching for Aramis with the other hand, “just gorgeous, both of you,” and Aramis squeezes’ Athos hand, leans over to kiss him on the cheek, biting down on the temptation to say, _I think you’re gorgeous too._

Perhaps, if this goes well, he’ll ask Athos later if he would ever consider kneeling for Aramis as well. Whether he could find his peace there; whether he’d take Aramis’ cock in that generous mouth.

“Aramis, take his breeches down,” Porthos orders, the two of them sharing a dark-eyed glance.

Perhaps Aramis is imagining it, but it seems as though Porthos understands him, and approves. Though Aramis is still on his knees, physically speaking, right now he doesn’t feel as though he’s kneeling at all. He feels like a channel for Porthos’ will; and he decides it’s time to see about exerting some will of his own.

Without asking anyone for permission, he reaches out to pull Athos’ head away from Porthos’ thigh, turning Athos’ face towards him and kissing him deeply, feeling a flush of pleasure when Athos hums slightly into his mouth.

He lets Porthos guide Athos’ head back to his thigh as he shuffles behind Athos, kisses below his ear as he reaches down to the buttons of Athos’ breeches, undoing every one, unlacing his smallclothes, before lifting him up slightly to wrestle everything down to his knees, baring him beneath his shirt.

Aramis watches Porthos watching Athos as he reaches under the hem of the shirt to touch his cock for the first time, leans over his shoulder and presses his cheek to Athos’, so that he can feel Athos’ jagged moan as well as hearing it.

“Do you like that, darling?” Aramis asks, half-caring and half-challenging, just loud enough for Porthos to hear him too. “My hand on your cock, all exposed for us, kept in your place? Do you?”

Athos doesn’t reply in words, only a low whine and a rough rush of air escaping him, a tension blooming in his shoulders that has Aramis instinctively wrapping his other arm across Athos’ chest.

Porthos gives him a look that says, _careful_ ; but Aramis knows pleasure, and Athos, and he knows that a little push isn’t always a bad thing.

They both know what Athos likes, after all; they’ve both seen the proof of it, even if this is something a little different. A new dimension, if you will.

“We’ve got you, and we’re going to make it _so_ , so good for you,” Aramis murmurs, tightening his hand on Athos’ chest just a little, for emphasis. “You won’t forget that, now will you? However much it gets, you won’t forget that we’ve got you.”

“I won’t forget,” Athos manages, in something approaching his normal voice, as Porthos cards a hand through his hair once more, and Athos pushes his head into Pothos’ hand, a restful smile settling over his face for a moment – though it’s broken as Aramis strokes his cock again, mouth falling open in an O of desire.

“Lean back against Aramis, there’s a good boy,” Porthos instructs; and Athos leans back obediently, his head falling back onto Aramis’ shoulder, expression dazed. “Aramis, lift the hem of that shirt up, I want to watch you touch his cock.”

Aramis picks up a fistful of Athos’ shirt, holding it to Athos’ chest for a moment before an idea seizes him; and he raises it up further, stuffing the end into Athos’ mouth. “Bite down, that’s it. Keep it between your teeth, darling, so Porthos can watch me stroke your cock.”

“Beautiful,” Porthos replies, tugging gently on Athos’ hair before leaning over to drag a finger down his now-exposed stomach, stopping just short of the hair at his groin. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, aren’t you? So hard, so needy. And we’re going to give you everything you need. You know that, don’t you?”

Athos moans in wordless assent as Aramis starts to slide his hand regularly up and down his shaft, Porthos’ hand moving back to Athos’ jaw, stroking alongside the edge of the fabric.

Aramis loses track of time for a while, concentrating on the hitches of Athos’ breath and the lust in Porthos’ eyes, the feeling of Athos’ cock in his hand as he slides the foreskin back and forth over the head, wanting to memorise every ridge beneath.

When Athos starts to murmur more and more, it takes Aramis a few moments to realise that he’s actually saying, “Please, please, please,” syllables dampened by the fabric still in his mouth.

“Do you want to come, darling? Is that it?” Aramis asks, moving his hand up to press lightly against Athos’ bared throat; and looking to Porthos, giving him his cue.

“You’re not to come until I say,” Porthos picks up, briefly pressing his hand over Aramis’ on Athos’ throat, both of them feeling Athos’ groan of need and frustration vibrating through their fingertips.

“Aramis, stop touching him,” Porthos continues, a grin breaking across his face as he bops Aramis lightly on the nose. (Aramis sticks his tongue out at him.) “We don’t want him to come before he’s taken you inside him, like he offered so nicely.”

“Oh, I know Athos always keeps his promises,” Aramis replies, pulling the fabric from Athos’ mouth and shifting his head gently off his shoulder as he mouths to Porthos, _oil?_ “He’s so eager to please, I’m sure he’ll do whatever I ask.”

Aramis finds he’s still watching Porthos carefully, half-waiting to be put back in his place; but Porthos doesn’t seem to object, instead just handing him the oil without a word. He’s eyeing Aramis as carefully as Aramis is eyeing him; but Aramis decides it’s only because he’s concerned about him pushing Athos further than he can handle, and not because he’s bothered about Aramis’ sudden exercise in dominance.

Porthos is easy-going, and Aramis has always liked that about him.

“Have you done this before?” Aramis asks Athos, letting go of him entirely for the moment to pour out the oil, scrunching up his hand to warm it and spread it out, as Porthos takes Athos’ hand in his own, the other already looped around Porthos’ leg as if to anchor himself.

Athos blinks his eyes open as if it’s with great effort, turning to look at Aramis through the haze of warmth and trust that he knows so well himself. “Only – alone,” he replies haltingly, “with my own fingers;” and Aramis has to bite his lip for a moment as he imagines Athos alone on his narrow bed, brow furrowed in concentration, reaching oiled-up fingers between his legs and pushing them inside himself.

Porthos reacts before Aramis can, leaning down to kiss Athos possessively, cradling his jaw in his hand. “You’re just perfect, you are,” he declares between kisses. “Were you thinking about this when you fingered yourself, were you teaching yourself to take us?”

Athos doesn’t reply; but Aramis decides he doesn’t give a damn as he reaches down between their bodies to dip slick fingers into Athos’ cleft, rubbing over his entrance and listening to him gasp and whine into Porthos’ mouth, as Athos’ other hand lets go of Porthos’ and finds Aramis’, clasping it to his bare thigh.

“Just listen to yourself, and the noises you’re making,” Aramis murmurs, half-entranced, punctuating his words with firm rubs of his fingers. “So desperate for my cock already. I look forward to finding out how delightful you sound when it’s inside you.”

“You’re so good,” Porthos says, reaching forward for Athos’ cock and caressing it lightly with his fingers, making Athos push into the touch. “You’re doing so well. Are you ready for Aramis’ fingers?”

“Yes,” Athos whispers, as Porthos leans back a little and caresses his cheek; before nodding at Aramis, giving him permission.

Slowly and carefully, leaning forward to rest his head on Athos’ shoulder, Aramis starts to push the first finger inside him.

Athos tenses immediately; and Aramis stills his finger, only at the second knuckle. “Relax, darling,” he croons, as he watches Porthos slips a finger inside Athos’ mouth, and Athos lap at it greedily. “You’re doing just fine. Relax, and let me in.”

Then Aramis starts to move again, stretching Athos slowly and thoroughly with first one finger and then a second, listening to the breathy groans it draws from him when Aramis crooks his fingers in just the right way; murmuring endearments and words of praise all the while, looking to Porthos’ face and trusting him to keep Athos grounded, to stop Aramis if he needs to.

It’s a few minutes before he feels Athos’ muscles start to loosen; and Athos must realise it too, starting to mumble, “Please, Porthos, please –”

“Are you sure?” Porthos asks, low and careful, looking right into Athos’ eyes. “You sure you’re ready?”

“Yes – please –” Athos gasps out; and Porthos looks to Aramis for confirmation, and gets a nod in return.

“You’re wonderful, darling, you’re doing so well,” Porthos replies, hand cupping the back of Athos’ neck. “Aramis is going to fuck you, and once he’s inside you then you can suck my cock, how does that sound?”

Athos gasps and shudders a little as Aramis slides his fingers carefully out of his body, before wrestling his own breeches and smalls down and off as fast as he possibly can, reaching for the vial of oil again to find Athos watching him, dark-eyed and beautiful.

Aramis hasn’t really been thinking about his own desire all that much, too busy focusing on Athos, but it was there in the background the whole time, burning steadily brighter and hotter; and now his cock’s free it’s almost fully hard already, pulse thundering along his nerves, and he’s suddenly desperate for some stimulation.

He reaches out to take Athos by the shoulders and turn him round to face him, pressing the glass vial into his hand. “Why don’t you spread that oil all over my cock, there’s a good boy,” he purrs filthily, leaning forward to mouth at Athos’ neck. “Make me nice and slick for when I fuck you.”

It only takes a few strokes of Athos’ oiled-up hand to bring Aramis to full hardness, and he stops Athos with a hand to the wrist soon after, leaning in to kiss him hard. “So good, aren’t you?” Aramis murmurs, cupping Athos’ jaw, not letting him turn away from the full force of Aramis’ praise. “Always so diligent in following our orders. So well-behaved. I think we’d better reward you, hadn't we?” He can’t resist nipping at Athos’ bottom lip once more, worrying it with his teeth. “Turn back towards Porthos, now.”

“Up you come,” Porthos encourages, lifting Athos under the armpits as he turns to face him again. “Lean your forearms on my legs, so that Aramis can get in behind you. There, that’s good.”

Then Porthos leans past Athos to pull Aramis to him by the fabric of his shirt, licking into his mouth; one hand staying on Athos’ head all the time, stroking his hair.

“You be careful with him,” Porthos warns as he lets go of Aramis’ shirt, fingers of the other hand caressing Athos’ jaw. “Give him what he needs.”

“Always,” Aramis breathes, his hand finding Athos’ waist, and squeezing briefly. “Always,” he repeats; meaning to follow it with something filthy, but feeling so overwhelmed for a moment by his affection for the both of them that the words just won’t come, and all he has is plain, bare honesty.

Porthos leans back in his chair, ready to watch, as Aramis reaches up to adjust Athos’ body. “Spread your legs for me just a little more, darling,” he encourages, helping Athos fight his way out of his breeches. “Good, that’s perfect, just like that. I’m going to take you now, alright?”

“Please, please…” Athos murmurs hoarsely, grip tightening on the leather of Porthos’ breeches.

Aramis has had men before, has fucked as well as been fucked; but as he finally, _finally_ pushes the head of his cock into Athos’ body, his head swims with the heat and the tightness of it, and the fact that this is _Athos_ , who he never imagined would allow Aramis this liberty; and he’s so close to coming already that he has to take a deep breath and dig his nails into his palms for a moment to compose himself.

Second by second, inch by inch, he sheathes himself fully inside Athos, both arms wrapped around his torso as Athos braces himself on Porthos’ legs; and then Aramis presses himself flush to Athos’ back as he bottoms out, pulling his shirt collar down at the back to kiss the nape of his neck.

“Just beautiful, _querido_ ,” he murmurs, “it feels so good inside you, so tight and hot. You can suck Porthos’ cock now, go on.”

Athos’ hands are unbuttoning Porthos’ breeches almost before Aramis finishes speaking, making short work of the fastenings; and Aramis has to take a breath himself at the wide-blown wonder on Porthos’ face as Athos draws his thick, hard cock from his smallclothes and kisses the tip delicately, looking down at him as intensely as if this were the first time; and Aramis wishes he could see Athos’ face too, see everything and have everything all at once and forever, never stopping.

As Athos leans forward and sucks the head of Porthos’ cock into his mouth, Porthos’ hand comes around to cup the back of his head, encouraging him carefully forward and back along his shaft; and Aramis leans back a little and starts to thrust, as slowly and gently as he can, though he feels half-destroyed with pleasure already.

It takes him a moment to realise Porthos is talking to Athos again, the hand that’s not on his head clasping Athos’ where it rests on Porthos’ thigh. “You’re so good at this, aren’t you? Such a skilful mouth. So trusting, just letting me hold you and use you, take care of you, give you what you need.”

The noise of Athos moaning around a mouthful of Porthos’ cock shoots straight to Aramis’ groin, and he speeds up, can’t help it, lets his body take over and loses himself entirely in Athos’ tight heat, mouthing frantically at the skin of his neck and trying to pull him closer, hold him tighter, biting his shoulder and near-collapsing against him as he comes in a flash of warmth that leaves him dazed for a few moments.

As the warmth tingling along his nerve endings and the pounding in his ears recede, and he slides himself carefully out of Athos’ body, he realises that Athos has pulled away from Porthos’ cock and is looking at the floor, mumbling, “Sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Hey,” Porthos takes Athos’ face in his hands and lifts it, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “What would you need to be sorry for?”

“I didn’t mean to, but then I felt – and I couldn’t stop –” Athos stalls, trying to pull away from Porthos’ hands.

Aramis catches Porthos’ eye, and the look of helplessness there; and he realises what has happened, and that Porthos needs him.

“Athos,” he says, reaching up to take Athos’ other hand, “it’s we who should be apologising to you, not the other way round. Have you even let anyone else touch you since you first came to Paris?”

“No,” Athos replies faintly, moving over instead to bury his face in Porthos’ thigh. “This is – no.”

“I’m so sorry, we should have asked. We’ve not been good to you at all,” Aramis continues, running his thumb soothingly along Athos’ knuckles, tightening his other arm around his waist. “It’s our job to make sure we don’t ask more from you than you’re able to give, and expecting you to take that much stimulation after several years of celibacy is just negligent of us.”

“Yeah,” Porthos continues, looking at Aramis gratefully, as he rests a hand on top of Athos’ head. “Aramis is right. We’re sorry. You did so good, I promise. Do you want to stop?”

“We’re not stopping at all,” Aramis contradicts him immediately, ignoring Porthos’ glare of _what the fuck are you doing?_ “We’re just going to do things a little differently. Athos, give me your hands.”

Athos pushes his head away from Porthos’ thigh and moves his hands to his sides, where Aramis grabs his wrists firmly.

“Kiss me,” Aramis demands; and the angle’s near-impossible but Athos twists his body round anyway, presses his lips fervently to Aramis’ before Aramis gently pushes him away, turning him again so they’re pressed together, back to chest. “That’s it, that’s right,” Aramis says, “that’s good. Now, we’re going to forget everything that’s gone before, I’m telling you, that’s not important. Instead, I’m going to hold your hands behind your back, and you’re going to make Porthos come using only your mouth.”

Aramis gives Porthos a look that says, _trust me on this_ ; and Porthos, to his credit, looks unsure only for a moment before he nods. “Athos, do you want this?” Porthos asks seriously, hand trailing gently down the side of Athos’ face. “You have to tell me whether you want this.”

“Yes,” Athos replies, so quietly Aramis barely hears it, “please…”

“Alright,” Aramis replies, letting his right hand grip both of Athos’ wrists, his left arm wrapping across Athos’ chest again. “Now I’ve got you, Porthos is going to guide your head, and if it gets too much then just squeeze my fingers, and I’ll pull you back. Ready?”

“Yes,” Athos replies, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he leans forward and lets Porthos guide his mouth back onto his cock, Porthos’ other hand reaching down to steady it at the base.

Despite their positions, Athos is taking all his own weight, willingly following the movement of Porthos’ hand where it’s wrapped around the back of his neck; so all Aramis has to do is move his hands with the motion of Athos’ body, and the rest of his attention can be given over to watching Athos’ lips taking in Porthos’ cock, and meanwhile, giving Athos the encouragement he needs.

“Such a pretty little cocksucker,” Aramis murmurs in his ear, voice dripped in syrup. “Such a talented tongue. I’d love to have those lips wrapped around my cock too, would you do that? Would you get on your knees for me? Then if you did a good job – and I know you would – I’d let you kneel for Porthos while I licked you all over, licked you _everywhere_. I’d make it so good for you that you’d forget your own name, you’d only remember mine, and Porthos’ and how to beg for more…”

At that, Athos moans particularly loudly around Porthos’ cock,  his whole body jerking suddenly as he gags; and Aramis pulls him straight back, off Porthos’ cock and against his chest. “Easy,” he murmurs soothingly, “easy, you’re doing just beautifully. Rub your tongue along the underside,” he instructs, as Porthos guides Athos’ head back onto his cock, “that’s lovely. You’re so eager, aren’t you? So wanton, so desperate to please, and so good at it too.”

Aramis sees Porthos’ hand tighten in Athos’ hair; looks up at his face, slack with pleasure and mouthing _I’m close_ , before looking back down to where Athos’ mouth is working on his cock, eyes closed in silent bliss.

“Come on, darling,” Aramis says, squeezing Athos’ wrist between thumb and finger for emphasis as Porthos’ hand starts working on his own cock, sliding up to meet Athos’ mouth and back down to the base, in a steady rhythm. “Make him come, and then you’ll swallow it all down for us, won’t you?”

As Porthos stiffens and comes with a long, drawn-out grown, Aramis moves his left hand up to cover Athos’ throat once more, so he can feel the movement as he swallows, Porthos’ fingers moving around to tangle with Aramis’ own.

“Come here,” Aramis says, almost unnecessarily as Athos turns into him, burrowing his head into his shoulder. “You’re amazing, you really are,” he says, holding Athos’ head against him. “Bed?”

Aramis asks before he has time to think about whether it’s selfish, or manipulative, asking Athos to stay before he’s had a chance to fully come back to himself; but perhaps he needn’t have worried, as Porthos is there a few moments later, scooping Athos up and carrying him off to the bedroom as if he weighs nothing at all; and Athos hums in contentment, pressing his face against Porthos’ chest as if he would fall asleep in his arms.

Left briefly alone, Aramis debates the merits of picking up their discarded clothes for approximately half a second, before shrugging to himself and lifting a bottle of wine and the candle from the sideboard, taking them through into the bedroom where a sleepy-looking Athos is already under the covers, wrapped firmly in Porthos’ arms.

“Drink?” Aramis asks cautiously, mindful of the fact that Athos may or may not have mostly come back to himself.

“Thank you,” Athos replies, in a tone that’s only a little subdued, levering himself up on one elbow and taking the proffered bottle from Aramis’ hand, swigging from it gratefully before passing it around.

Aramis waits until he’s blown the candle out and they’re all lying together in the dark, the length of his and Athos’ forearms pressed together, before whispering, “Did you want that, all this time?”

There’s no answer at first, but this time he has faith; so he waits, and eventually Athos replies, “…not as such. I wanted it, but I didn’t want it to _happen_ , if that makes sense.”

 _You weren’t ready_ , Aramis thinks; and he smiles, rests his forehead lightly against Athos’. “I’m not going to lie and pretend I’ve been there, but I think I understand.”

“I’m glad it has, though,” Athos whispers, entirely unexpectedly; and Aramis leans forward and kisses him again, smiling wide against Athos’ mouth and hoping he can feel it, hoping he understands that it’s there for him.

After that, Aramis gives him his space to sleep; and waits until Athos’ breathing turns deep and regular before he props himself up on an elbow to whisper over to Porthos, “Well, that was quite an evening.”

“You’re telling me,” Porthos replies, and Aramis can hear the smile in his voice; then, after a pause, “How did you know what to do, when he…?”

“Misspent youth,” Aramis replies. “Or rather, a frequently misspent manhood.”

Porthos chuckles slightly, and reaches an arm over to jab him in the ribs – rather unfairly, and Aramis would definitely protest if he didn’t want to run the risk of waking Athos. “Is that right.”

“He needs rules, though. Direction,” Aramis continues, quite seriously. “If it doesn’t work out how we intended then we change the rules, but we mustn’t let him stop on a failure. I think that would go deeper than we realise.”

“Makes sense.” Porthos pauses, and even in the dark, Aramis can sense him considering. “You think he’ll kneel for you, then?”

“I hope so,” Aramis replies, imagining Athos’ face pressed to his thigh, his hand in Athos’ hair, grounding him, caring for him. “I’m hoping that’ll be just the beginning.”

 


End file.
